The Double Bluff
by wendymarlowe
Summary: It seemed like a brilliant plan. Harry and Clara hate that their relationship is all that anyone wants to gossip about, so John does what any good brother would do: he sets himself up to be a bigger item of gossip instead. Surely by announcing that he's dating the one and only openly-gay boy at their school, he'll draw their classmates' attention away from her and Clara.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I'm slowly working my way through as many fanfic tropes as I can get my hands on, and teen!lock has always been one of my favorites :-) I'm not going to be updating on any sort of regular schedule, but I do hope to get this one up faster than I've done for some of my longer-running fics . . .

* * *

Harry's petulant footsteps echoed all the way up the stairs, so John wasn't the least bit surprised when she burst into his room with a murderous look on her face.

"I fucking hate them." She glared at John, daring him to call her out, then sighed and flopped gracelessly across his bed.

John knew better than to comment. Harry always argued loudly and with creative language - the hour-long shouting match downstairs would have demonstrated that handsomely if he hadn't already known. "Sounds like they didn't take it well," he said instead.

Harry rolled her eyes. "Bit of a fucking understatement. Mum is still crying and Dad seems to think he can yell me straight. Bloody idiots, both of them."

"Bit different than you expected?"

She sighed and rolled over onto her back. "It's just not fair," she grumbled. "When Clara came out to her parents last week, they just hugged her and said they'd support her no matter what. Why can't our parents be more open-minded?"

 _Because Clara's family isn't dysfunctional_. Her parents ran a restaurant downtown - fourth generation local business, with pictures of her grandparents and great-grandparents on the wall. Her two older brothers both already worked in the kitchen after school and on weekends, so Clara's dreams of running off to London and becoming a solicitor wouldn't have any effect on whether the family business survived or not. They could afford to be open-minded.

John and Harry's parents, on the other hand . . . with Harry finally silent, John could still hear them arguing with each other in hushed tones down in the kitchen. Well, their father raving quietly interspersed with occasional sobs from their mother. Clearly Harry's announcement had been a complete shock to them.

Which was ridiculous, to be honest. John shifted around so he could lie next to her- not touching, just staring at the ceiling in parallel. "They may never accept it, you know," he said quietly.

"Don't remind me," Harry groaned. "It's just - it could have been so simple, you know? 'Mum, Dad, by the way, I have a girlfriend.' 'Oh, honey, that's nice. Bring her around for supper one of these days.' Why do they have to be such homophobic twats?"

"I'm not going to make excuses for them."

"I know. You shouldn't have to." She rolled to her side, studying his face intently. "It's easy for you - half the school's trying to get in your pants. No shortage of interested partners to pick from. The female ones, at least."

"Doesn't mean I want them all," John reminded her.

"Still." She grimaced. "I think my best bet is to watch which girls _aren't_ trying to snog you in between classes. The one or two who don't are probably lesbians. If we have any at our school."

"Maybe some are bi?" John rolled to face her. "Could be they just haven't come out yet."

"Like you, you mean? Yeah, like that'll happen." She snorted. "Although I don't blame you - precious few choices on that side of the fence. I understand why you just let everyone know you're straight. It's not worth-" - she inclined her head toward the door - "-that."

Harry's acceptance of his cowardice hurt, John had to admit. So far she was the only one he'd told that he might also fancy blokes, and that was only because she'd come out to him first. It was all still theoretical anyway. There was only one openly-out boy at their school, a relatively new transfer - something that started with an S, John was pretty sure. They didn't exactly run in the same circles. Given that 100% of the attention John had received so far was female, was it really so odd that he'd never bothered telling anyone he was bi?

"You've said it now, though," John pointed out. "I mean, Mum and Dad will probably be stupid about it for a while longer, but you don't have to worry about planning a coming-out speech anymore. At least, not to them."

"I will to the school, though," Harry groused. "I would have been perfectly happy to keep Clara and me a secret, but she was sick of hiding. And I guess if I were her, with a supportive family, I'd feel the same. We shouldn't have to be the center of attention just because of this, you know?"

"I know," John echoed. "You think it'll be bad?"

Harry groaned and flopped backward again. "I don't want to think. I just want it to be over."

"You want to be snogging Clara."

"Well yes, that goes without saying." She had her arm thrown dramatically over her eyes, but there was a smile on her lips.

"Go on, then. You can't really make them madder than they already are."

Harry lowered her arm and peeked at him.

"I'm serious," John urged. "You just came out to your parents for her - that should be worth at least a bloody kiss. And it's not that late still - I'll cover for you if I have to. Get your arse over to her house and tell her how it went. I guarantee you'll feel better afterward."

Harry gave a reluctant laugh. "You're a terrible influence on me, you know that?"

"It's mutual," he countered. "One of us Watsons has to have some bloody sense, you know? I'm just not sure which of us it is."

The oak outside John's room was very tall, very old, and much closer to the house than their parents would have liked. Harry shimmied out the window with practiced ease and paused to give John an awkward one-armed hug before stepping the rest of the way outside. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Go." John watched to make sure she reached the ground safely before closing the window and retreating to his bed.

He had a lot of planning to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock scowled at the three boys approaching him from across the rugby pitch. He couldn't have cared less about the actual sport, but there was a nicely comfortable flat rock half hidden by the edge of the treeline. The semi-secluded spot let him stretch out in the sun (when there was any) and avoid having to go home quite yet. The team had unknowingly shared the field with him for the last few weeks without incident but that was apparently about to change.

"It _is_ Holmes!" the largest boy declared. "You were right, Powers. He's probably been skulking around here all month, ogling us."

Sherlock stood, but kept his mouth shut. No point in running, not when they were this close already and clearly primed to react, but at least if he met them here instead of in the woods behind him they might not hurt him too badly. Not when practice had just gotten out and there was a chance of someone else seeing.

"You like to watch, Holmes?" the boy continued with a sneer. "Probably just sit here wanking over the thought of getting your mouth around our cocks, I bet. Bloody faggot." He glanced over at the boy on his right. "What do you think?"

Carl Powers (yes, Sherlock remembered him well - had noted him on the very first day as one to stay away from) grinned. It was not a nice smile. "I think he's daydreaming about taking it up the arse from you. Hell, from all of us. Why else would he watch us practice?"

"I wasn't watching," Sherlock declared. "I just sit here."

"Here, as opposed to anywhere else at the school? Here, with the perfect view of all our arses in tight rugby shorts? You think we're stupid?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered automatically. Then inwardly winced. "Then again, nearly everyone is . . ."

"Right." The third boy swaggered forward, malice written clearly across his face. "Shall we show him what we think of faggot-arse pansies who can't keep their eyes to themselves?"

Strangely enough, just as the boy wound up a punch which would probably have caused significant damage, he stopped. And straightened back up to a casual stance. "John."

"Hey," came a voice from behind Sherlock. "Making new friends?"

The boys all took a step back in unison, as if to demonstrate they hadn't been mere seconds from giving Sherlock a beating. "Just telling Holmes hi," Carl Powers said.

John. _John Watson_. Even after only three weeks at this school, Sherlock recognized him - shortish, with sandy-blond hair and a confident gait. John Watson couldn't go ten feet down the hallway without some girl trying to fawn all over him, but he welcomed them all with that thousand-watt smile and a fair amount of flirting back. He must have snuck along the treeline while Sherlock's attention was otherwise engaged. He didn't have a reputation as a bully, though - maybe, as captain of the rugby team, he'd actually have the authority to tell the trio to bug off . . .

"Hi," John said solemnly, his eyes on Sherlock. Then held out his hand. "I'm John."

"Sherlock Holmes." It felt surreal, shaking hands like civilized people while the three bullies were still looming about. "I wasn't - I mean, I just sit here."

John shrugged, but one side of his lips tugged upwards into a hint of a smile. "Free country, yeah? Don't blame you - it's gorgeous out this afternoon." He turned to point at each of the three in turn. "Carl Powers, Philip Miller, and Tony Williams. Since I bet they didn't bother to introduce themselves before _saying hi."_

The trio met Sherlock's gaze with matching nods and murderous glares.

"Right then." John shot a significant look at Tony, the ringleader. "Since practice is done for today I expect you three will be on your way, yeah?"

Carl sneered. "We weren't done with our conversation."

"My turn," John said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Bugger off."

"Wait, what are _you_ going to do?" Tony let out a huff which reminded Sherlock of a bull sighting an intruder in his paddock. "Holmes is a bloody faggot, you know - he's been watching us. Probably getting off to it. He doesn't even deny-"

"Fuck. Off." John kept his gaze on Sherlock, but the words were clearly meant for his teammates. "And yes, I _did_ know, and I came over here to ask him out. You three are going to need to do some thinking before tomorrow - because if you haven't apologized to him by then, you're off the team."

There was a spectacular silence, then. Sherlock would have enjoyed the stunned look on the boys' faces more if he hadn't been just as shocked himself. John just glared at each of the trio, one at a time, until they turned tail and slunk back toward the school.

"Sorry about that," John said after the last of them was out of earshot. "They're total bastards, but Tony's the best centre we've got so I usually have to put up with them. I really will kick them off the team if they don't apologize to you tomorrow, though," he added.

Sherlock blinked. "You . . . why?"

"You're gonna make me say it again?" John grinned at him - a slow, subdued smile, but a grin nonetheless. "Fine - I wasn't lying. I did come over here to ask you out. Although I was planning to shower and change first - not really at my best for a first impression when I'm covered in mud from practice."

Sherlock was still trying to process the rest of that. "You . . . ask me out? As in-"

"Yeah, if that doesn't sound too weird." John sat down on the rock, leaving plenty of space for Sherlock next to him, but Sherlock's body wouldn't move. "I know we don't know each other all that well, but-"

"You're not gay," Sherlock blurted out. "I mean, everyone's told me I'm the only gay one at the school."

"Only half right." John cocked his head to look up at Sherlock, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "You're right that you're the only openly gay one at the school, which is why I thought of you in the first place. But my sister - Harry Watson - just finally came out to her friends today. She's dating Clara Simmons in the year behind us. And I'm bi, although I haven't really told anyone yet." He grimaced. "Barring those three idiots, I suppose. So yes, you're the only gay student here, but not the only one who's something other than straight."

"You're . . ." Sherlock's mind was whirling. "Why me?"

"Why not?" John retorted.

"You don't even _know_ me." Sherlock scowled. "And it's not like you don't have your pick of everyone else here - you're a terrible flirt. Bi means you actually _can_ stay in the closet if you want."

"I don't want, though. And I don't _try_ to flirt." John reached up and grabbed Sherlock's hand and tugged it until Sherlock was sitting next to him on the rock. It wasn't a romantic gesture - he let go the moment Sherlock started moving the correct direction - but it felt oddly intimate anyway. "I just try to be nice to people," John added with a shrug. "It's not my fault if they take that the wrong way."

Something clicked inside Sherlock's brain. "Your sister," he said slowly. "She just came out - your parents didn't take it well, I assume? You're solidly middle-class; your haircut says you fend for yourself a lot. At least one of your parents is an alcoholic - or is it both? Right, both. Your sister tried to tell them she's a lesbian and they fought. Not that you're unused to them fighting - bruise on your shin says you're used to sneaking around the house at night, after they've gone to bed or passed out, but this time you don't account for them having thrown furniture around. You care for your sister - younger, I assume, since you're in your final year here, couldn't be older. You hope that by falsely announcing you're bisexual and dating the one openly gay boy at school, you'll draw your peers' and parents' ire away from your sister. You need me to make the declaration realistic. Hardly flattering, knowing I'm your only choice."

John's mouth was hanging open by the end of Sherlock's little speech. "You got all that from just looking at me? From my - hell, there're dozens of bruises on my shins. I play rugby!"

"Just one straight across at chair leg height, though," Sherlock pointed out. "Dining room chair was overturned and you walked right into it in the dark on your way to forage for food. The argument kept you from having supper at your usual time."

"That's . . ." John caught his lip. "Brilliant," he declared.

 _Wait, what?_ Sherlock blinked. "That's not what people usually say," he admitted.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John actually laughed at that. "I'll bet," he said. "But it was pretty damn fantastic. Almost entirely spot-on."

 _Damn_. "Almost?"

"Harry's technically older, but only by three minutes. And I'm not lying about anything - I really am bi. I think."

"You think."

"Not really had the chance to test it, yeah?" John grinned again, but there was a brittle quality to it. As if he were having to put some real effort into looking self-assured. "I admit I am a bit nervous about coming out," he admitted after a slightly-too-long silence which Sherlock had no intention of breaking. "Well, you've seen how the rugby lads are. They're going to be utter bastards about it for a while until they come around. Eventually."

"You're still proposing to use me, though," Sherlock said. "Even if I were insane enough to 'date' someone I'd just met - why would I? The idea is ridiculous. What would be the benefit?"

"To you, you mean?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"What do you want?"

 _Good grief_. "Nothing you could procure for me," Sherlock declared in as dismissive a tone as he could manage. It wasn't like John could offer money, and Sherlock wouldn't have needed to take it if he did. "It was more of a rhetorical question."

"Oh, I don't think it was." John leaned back, propping himself up on his hands and tilting his head backward to look up at the scattering of clouds overhead. "Look, I'll be honest - I asked around a bit before coming to find you. Molly Hooper said you were brilliant at maths and science but refused to let anyone partner you in biology. My mate Greg said you pretty much made your French teacher cry on the very first day. He claims he didn't catch half of what you told her, even though he speaks pretty damn good French, but what he did understand was both creative and vicious. He also said she totally deserved it because she was being a bloody cunt about picking on you in front of everyone. His words, not mine. So yeah."

He exhaled deeply, shoulders slumping, then brought his gaze back to Sherlock's face. "Look, it sucks to be starting a new school in sixth form. It sucks to be the only openly gay one at your new school. And okay, I'm kind of doing this for Harry, so she's not going through it alone, but I'm also doing it for me. Because I'm sick of second-guessing everything I do, to make sure I don't give myself away with some stray look or too-revealing comment. I'm not going to say the bullying would totally stop if you wanted to - you know." He actually blushed a bit, which some part of Sherlock found much more intriguing than logic would have dictated. "But I like to think I've got _some_ sway because of the rugby thing and all. Not all my teammates are complete wankers."

"Most," Sherlock muttered reflexively.

John gave a little half-laugh, but he didn't contradict him. "Okay, most. But still. Might be a little less lonely if we ride this out together. If you're interested. It was just an idea."

"You already told your teammates you were going to propose a relationship," Sherlock pointed out.

John shrugged. "I'll deny everything tomorrow and tell them I was taking the piss, if you say no. It'll blow over. God knows they make enough gay jokes as it is."

Sherlock let out a long breath. "And . . . theoretically. If I were insane enough to say yes? What then?"

John froze, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. "You're considering it?"

 _Am I?_ Sherlock rarely found himself second-guessing his decisions, but John Watson wasn't turning out to be at all like Sherlock had assumed. "Possibly," he admitted. "It's - I'd certainly prefer not to get punched more often than is strictly necessary." _Damn_. That was a bit closer to the truth than he normally liked to-

"Oh, that's not a condition of dating me." John's body relaxed, even as his facial expression stayed sharp. "And I . . . look, I've got no illusions about still being all that popular after I come out. But I've got no problem pummeling them back either way. I can't stand bullies."

Strangely enough, _that_ more than anything else made Sherlock pause instead of outright eviscerating John for even suggesting it. "I'll . . . I'll think about it," Sherlock found himself saying. "I may have conditions."

The concession was worth it, just for the look on John's face in that moment. "You're serious?" he breathed. "I mean - that's great. That you'll consider it. And I'm not expecting you to have to - you know. _That_ stuff. The . . ."

"Sex?" Sherlock asked. "Anal intercourse?"

John flushed bright red. "Yeah," he mumbled. "That."

"Not so different from vaginal intercourse, or so I'm told."

If anything, John flushed further. "I, um. So despite my reputation, I don't have a lot of experience with that either. Above the waist, sure, but the only girl I really dated like that was Sarah and she didn't-"

"No need to explain," Sherlock interrupted. "And I won't - I don't expect this to include that either. A relationship of convenience, if anything. For show."

"That's - yeah," John sighed. "So okay - meet me at the front doors tomorrow after school? We can walk over here together and you can do whatever it is you do while I'm at practice. And maybe we can talk more. Conditions, and whatnot. If you want."

Sherlock pondered for a moment, but nodded. "That would be acceptable."

"Good. I mean - yeah. Good." John extended his hand like they were shaking on a business deal, then seemed to think better of it and offered a crisp nod instead. "So. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

Sherlock stayed put on his perch and watched John as he wandered back toward the gym to shower.

The bullies were right. John really did have a fantastic arse in those shorts.


	3. Chapter 3

John fully expected to be the subject of some not-so-gentle ribbing during class the next day, compliments of the Terrible Trio, but nobody else seemed to have heard even vague rumors about John asking Sherlock out. It was bloody odd, honestly - for all that Tony really did carry the team's defense on his overly broad shoulders, he and his cronies were total wankers pretty much any time they weren't on the rugby pitch. It wasn't like them to pass up the chance to make arses of themselves.

It all became clearer, though, when John finished class and found Sherlock waiting for him in the lee of the school's front courtyard. Sherlock was dressed much the same as he had been the day before, in pressed black trousers and a formal shirt. Even though he was slouching against the wall in the shadow of some bushes, he still stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Good day?" John asked by way of greeting.

Sherlock shrugged eloquently. "Acceptable."

"Nobody act like a complete tosser to you today?" John tilted his head meaningfully in the direction of the athletics fields. "I was expecting some comments, actually, but nobody said a peep. Makes me wonder what's being said behind my back."

An apology, if you'd believe it." Sherlock slung his rucksack over his shoulder and fell into step beside John as they made their way toward the rugby pitch. "Your charming teammates looked like they'd rather be eating glass, but Powers apologized on behalf of the group. Obviously not heartfelt, but I'm not expecting miracles."

"It's good that they did it, though. Saves me making a scene at practice."

Sherlock stopped and swung John to face him. "They're not going to forgive you, you know," he said quietly. "For making them do that. And it will be even worse if you let yourself be seen around with me."

John squared his shoulders and returned Sherlock's gaze steadily. "I can handle it."

"Even if you become an outcast? I knew what I was getting into when I acknowledged my sexuality here right off - you don't."

"I can guess, though." John shrugged off Sherlock's concern and forced his feet to keep moving. "I take it that means you've been out for a while, then. How'd your parents take it? And everyone at your last school?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched, but he resumed walking. "The two are related."

"Oh?"

They walked in silence for a while. Just when John was sure Sherlock wouldn't answer, Sherlock tugged him over to a sheltered spot around the side of the athletic building, away from the main path, and pulled a face. "It's complicated."

"Should I wait until after practice to ask? Or . . ." John steeled himself against imminent rejection, then reached for Sherlock's hand and squeezed. It was a visceral relief when Sherlock didn't yank his hand away. "You don't have to confess anything," John said. "I was just curious."

"No, I suppose you should know." Sherlock did pull his hand back, then, but not with any malice behind it. "I went to an all-boys school before this - St. Luke's Academy in London. Very posh; most of my classmates had more money than sense. When I told my parents I was gay they immediately went to the headmaster to complain about 'corrupting influences.' He, of course, took it out on me. My classmates were overjoyed to join in. When I wasn't 'cured' by the end of the year, my father decided my affliction was caused by not being around enough girls and sent me here instead. Now I have to live with my insufferable brother Mycroft and call my mother every evening to dutifully tell her about my day so she can ask pointed questions about my studies and all the potential girlfriends I'm not yet shagging. They can't stop me from being gay, though," he added with a touch of pride.

"That's bollocks," John declared. "Like changing schools will make you straight?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I think it's more about expecting me to fall in with their perfect expectations. Which I have no interest in doing."

"You shouldn't have to," John said with total sincerity. "Look - I need to go change. I'll find you after, yeah? That same rock you were at before? If you don't mind waiting for me a few, I'll try to be quick and then - hell, I can walk you home or something. We can talk."

Sherlock inclined his head in agreement, then turned and walked off across the field without another word.

* * *

Carl, Philip, and Tony smirked their way through practice, but they didn't do anything John could outright punish them for. Carl _did_ sneak several long looks at John's arse - completely failing to be subtle - but making a stink would have called more attention to himself than John really wanted to bother with. It was already all he could do to not keep glancing over at the treeline in the hopes of catching Sherlock watching him. By the time practice was over, John was thoroughly sick of his teammates and wanted nothing more than a good shower and some peace and quiet. He did the bare minimum of his usual routine after they finished, showering and changing as quickly as possible while making a point of keeping the Terrible Trio in earshot (if not direct sight) at all times. He was finished and on his way out the door before some of his teammates were even stepping into the shower.

"Hey," he called as he reached Sherlock. "Did you watch, or do you just sit out here to think?"

"I just like the quiet," Sherlock said. He slid a book out of his rucksack just far enough for John to see a top corner of the cover - something about chemistry, looked like.

John nodded and plopped himself down on the other end of the rock. "Me too, sometimes. I'm always a bit beat after practice."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "No reason to muddy up the silence, then." He shifted so they were sitting in parallel and looking out over the field but with a good meter of space between them. It should have been awkward, just sitting together, but it really wasn't. John sighed and let himself relax.

The other members of the team trickled out of the athletics building in ones and twos, laughing and chatting as they headed their separate directions. Carl and Tony emerged without Philip. They both turned as one to look back across the pitch, but apparently the sight of John sitting with Sherlock was enough to dissuade them because they left without doing anything. John didn't realize he was sitting straighter, on guard, until Philip wandered off down the sidewalk as well and the whole field was empty.

"You want to confront them," Sherlock declared, just as if they hadn't been sitting in silence for ten minutes or more. "You consider yourself a man of action - you want to get it over with."

He wasn't wrong. John just shrugged. "Would be nice."

"It's not something you can 'get over with,' though," Sherlock pointed out. "Being openly gay isn't a matter of 'there, it's done now.' Everyone wants to know, and then to ask you questions, and then to argue with you."

"Not gay - I'm bi. Not that it matters for this."

"Same thing, in the end."

John shrugged again. "You have advice?"

Sherlock looked over at him. "I have conditions."

"Okay."

"Not going to ask what they are?"

 _Prat_. "I'm sure you'll tell me if you think they're important enough to mention."

"You're really that desperate to show up your sister?"

"That's not what-" John started, then grimaced. "You bloody plonker. I can't tell whether you were having me on or not, but that's not what it's about at all."

Sherlock deflated a bit. "I know. And I was . . . teasing. I'm not good at it."

"It's . . . fine." John turned to face Sherlock, the better to actually watch his facial expressions since his tone of voice gave away absolutely nothing. "I think you understand better than you're letting on. You were going to tell me your conditions, though."

"I - right. Those." Sherlock bit his lip, and John found his attention totally concentrated on that one small bit of flesh.

 _What would it taste like if I kissed him?_ John had snogged plenty of girls, here and there, some in the context of "dating" and many more just because the opportunity arose and they were there and he'd always been popular, in a genial sort of way, which apparently translated to "approachable." Girls' mouths usually tasted like coffee or lemonade or lip gloss or chocolate. Would kissing Sherlock be different? If nothing else, he'd smell less like flowery body wash and more . . . neutral, probably. John found himself biting his own lip and staring. He quickly brought his attention back to the conversation and prayed Sherlock didn't notice.

". . . only seems prudent," Sherlock was saying. _Apparently I missed half of his conditions while I was daydreaming about snogging him_. "Seeing as our primary goal with this arrangement is to convince them."

"Sorry," John interrupted. "Convince who?"

"Your parents?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Weren't you listening?"

 _No, I was fantasizing about kissing you_. John debated trying to deny it, but . . . "I got distracted," John admitted. "Wondering what your lips tasted like."

Sherlock's entire body stilled except for his eyelashes, which swept downward and back up in one slow blink. "Ah," he said.

"Did any of your conditions preclude me kissing you right now?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. And gave a tiny shake of the head side to side.

A blatantly primal sense of satisfaction swelled through John with the force of a tidal wave. He slid closer to Sherlock on the rock, leaning in so he could reach Sherlock's lips despite leaving a good six inches of space between their thighs as they sat. Sherlock was breathing faster, now, quick little puffs of air with no force behind them, and then he stopped breathing altogether when John tilted his head and closed the gap.

 _My first kiss with a bloke_. John kept his movements slow, controlled, nudged his lips a little more firmly against Sherlock's and was rewarded by a tentative but promising nudge back. Sherlock definitely didn't kiss like a girl - he was hesitant, almost shy, but without the coy overtones John had grown to expect. They broke apart without taking it further, without touching except for their lips, but even after pulling away John could still feel a residual tingle.

Sherlock twisted his hands in his lap. "So."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"I suppose kissing is all right."

"Do you want to . . . to do it again sometime? We might want to - to convince someone. In public." John couldn't believe how hard it was to get the words out - usually he had no problem expressing himself - but somehow this was different. "Seems like it would be smart to get used to each other. Like that. If you're comfortable with it."

"Yes, I . . ." One corner of Sherlock's lips twisted upward into a hint of a wry smile. "I was going to ask for that, actually. Not the kissing specifically, but - convincing. You want to convince your parents that you're gay so they'll focus on you instead of your sister. And I'd like to . . . I want you to meet my brother. My mother too, if things progress like I expect - she'll likely insist on coming out here to disapprove of you in person as soon as Mycroft tells her I'm dating a boy."

John met his gaze squarely then. "Will you be okay? Will you be safe, if that happens?"

Sherlock snorted. "What else are they going to do? They've already banished me to the country, to a state school. Unless they want to send me to an all-girls grammar school they've pretty much done as much as they can without actually disinheriting me. And since homosexual boys have a disturbing tendency to grow up into homosexual adults, it does me no good to play along. I have no intention of bowing to my parents' demands for the rest of my life."

"That's . . ." John blew out a breath. "Yeah, okay. Tomorrow's Friday - no rugby for me. Want to meet up after school again and . . . I don't know. Walk home together? Go somewhere? There'll be rumors after today - if we leave together tomorrow people will talk."

"They do little else."

"Yeah, well there is that." John tried valiantly not to break into a completely inappropriate grin. "So is that a yes? I live practically around the corner - not that Mum or Dad will be home at half three in the afternoon, but you might as well meet Harry. Outside of school, that is. You can come over and we'll plan our strategy."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, but nodded. "That's . . . acceptable. As it so happens, strategy is one of my stronger suits."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had almost convinced himself he was imagining the whole thing by the time his final class finished the next day. Their school wasn't _that_ big, but he and John shared no classes and as a result he hadn't seen his still-somewhat-theoretical "boyfriend" since the previous afternoon. Students streamed through the hallway, laughing and chatting about their weekend plans, but none of them tried to engage him. Sherlock didn't do _friends_.

"Hey! You ready?"

John was dressed in an oatmeal-colored jumper (in deference to the slightly cooler weather outside) and had a ragged green knapsack over his shoulder. He'd obviously taken a moment to neaten his hair and straighten up a bit; there'd been a few blond locks out of place every other time Sherlock had seen him but now they were all combed meticulously in the correct direction. _Wanted to make the best possible impression?_ Sherlock got a pleasantly warm sensation low in his stomach at the thought of John wanting to look his best for this. For him. It was oddly difficult to repress the urge to run a hand through his own curls in response.

They walked, shoulder to shoulder, through the emptying hallways and out into the sunshine. John didn't seem to feel the need to talk much, which was perfectly fine with Sherlock. Everyone was staring. Well, maybe not _staring_ , exactly, but John and Sherlock were definitely leaving a trail of turned heads behind them.

"You'd think they'd never seen two blokes walking together before," John said quietly enough that only Sherlock could hear. "We're not even doing anything."

"We're clearly comfortable next to each other, though," Sherlock countered. "And you're talking to me. That's a novelty."

"What, that you'd make a friend?" John asked, a frown in his eyes. "Is it really that strange?"

Sherlock shrugged rather than having to answer. Yes, it was, and not just at this school - his "friends" had been few and far between over the years. None of them lasted long enough to truly deserve the appellation. Not that John was likely to put up with him any better than anyone else had, but hopefully if Sherlock was on his best behavior John would stick around long enough for them to pull off their charade-

"Whad'ya think they might do if we were to hold hands, then?" John said, almost under his breath. "If you're ready for that?" He paused, giving Sherlock ample time to say no, then slipped his hand into Sherlock's and squeezed.

An almost visible ripple of shock spread through the crowd of students loitering in front of the school. Sherlock had a hard time focusing on anything except the warmth of John's palm against his own, though. It felt oddly comfortable there.

Whispers followed them until they were out of sight of the building, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. John showed no inclination to let go.

* * *

"So this is my place," John announced as they came up alongside a cream-colored row house at the end of a side street. The paint was peeling and the whole block had obviously seen better days, but John didn't seem particularly embarrassed to be showing it off. "Like I said, my parents won't be home for a while yet, but Harry'll be along any time now. She and Clara tend to walk as slowly as possible so they don't have to split until the last minute. Um." He shrugged and gestured toward the door with his free hand. The one that wasn't still holding Sherlock's. "Want to come in?"

The interior was just as faded as the exterior, although it was clearly "lived-in" instead of just neglected. John barely let Sherlock get a glimpse of the main floor as he tugged him up the stairs and through to a back bedroom. Harry's door was covered in posters for what appeared to be various pop stars, but John's was bare except for a single Union Jack hanging squarely in the middle. The interior of John's room was much like Sherlock expected from him as well: cluttered but not messy, filled with a hodgepodge of both child-sized furniture (which he had surely outgrown but the family probably couldn't afford to replace) and mismatched decor which had obviously been rejected from elsewhere in the house. John's single bed had a Star Wars quilt and a camouflage pillowcase, the visual clash bad enough to make Sherlock actually stop and blink several times.

"Awful, I know," John said, following Sherlock's gaze, "but Harry took the plain white sheets this time and the camo was all I could find. I did tidy up a bit."

"I see." Sherlock sat gingerly on the worn-looking office chair and was surprised to find it was actually quite comfortable despite being shoved up against a three-quarter-sized bright blue desk. John flopped with significantly less grace onto the bed. The room was small enough that they were only a few feet apart. Sherlock couldn't decide whether that felt much too close or much too far.

"So," John announced. "Strategy. And conditions, if you had any more of those. We kind of got . . . sidetracked yesterday."

Sherlock was relieved to see that John was flushing faintly pink at the reminder, a mirror for what he was sure his own complexion looked like. "We did," he acceded.

"I wouldn't have any objection to getting sidetracked again today, too. For the sake of practice."

 _Practice. Right_. "I suppose we need it to look realistic when it matters," Sherlock said with all the calm he could muster.

To his surprise, though, John didn't immediately haul him over to the bed. "That's later, though," John declared as if trying to convince himself as well. "First, I - actually, I have a condition too." He laughed at Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "Yeah, I know this was my idea, but I was thinking about it. Us. About you, last night. And I just . . . you've got to promise to tell me if I'm doing this wrong, okay?"

"Define 'this.'"

John bit his lip. "The - well, all of it. I mean, I told you I've really only dated one girl before and we did spend quite a bit of time snogging, but that was mostly because we didn't have all that much to talk about. Nothing in common. She asked me out and I said yes but I have no idea whether I was rubbish at being her boyfriend or not. And if this is . . ." If anything, he turned redder. "If this is going to be a practical arrangement, it occurred to me that it's probably my best chance to learn what not to do when dating a bloke. Or anyone, really. So I'm just - I'm asking you to tellme if I'm bollixing something up, yeah? So I can at least learn from this?"

 _Already looking ahead to the next partner. Of course_. It was no less than Sherlock expected - like John had said, this was supposed to be a practical arrangement - but it stung a bit anyway. "We may not turn out to have anything in common either," Sherlock pointed out. "And you assume I'd ben an adequate judge of whether you were doing well or not."

"I - yeah, I guess I did," John said slowly. "From what you said before, about your old school, I thought . . ." His eyes widened. "Was yesterday your first kiss?"

Sherlock's embarrassed silence was apparently answer enough.

"Was it . . . good?"

A verbal reply was totally unnecessary - John took Sherlock's _what a stupid question_ glare exactly how it was intended and cracked a broad smile.

"No objections to practicing, then," he probed. And then held up a hand to forestall Sherlock's entirely predictable motion toward the bed. "In a minute," he promised. "Your conditions first, or we'll never get to them."

 _My . . . right. I had conditions_. Had spent a fair amount of time dissecting and mulling them over, actually, but hell if Sherlock could remember his careful wording now. "I want to make it look like we're dating rather than just sharing orgasms," he declared. "It will have more of an impact when it comes to convincing my family I'm serious. Oh, and no public breakup." That had been one of his conditions, definitely. "When you do decide you're sick of me I'd prefer to have some advance warning rather than be dumped in front of the whole school. And if my brother offers you money to leave me alone, be aware that he's not always known for following through once he's-"

"Jesus, Sherlock," John exclaimed, shock clear on his face. "You sound like you expect me to just use you and go. It's not like that."

"Why not?" Sherlock forced his expression into one of neutrality. "It's what you need, isn't it? The appearance of friendship won't be enough to confirm your bisexuality - you need people to believe we're physically intimate. And obviously you'll want to break up with me eventually - you're already thinking ahead to a future 'real' relationship - so isn't that exactly what you've proposed?"

"It's not, and I'm sorry if it came across that way." John scooted backward so he could lean against the wall, legs crossed in front of him. No kissing imminent. "First off, I'm not a complete arse. I wouldn't have asked you to do this if I hadn't been pretty sure we'd get along. I mean, yeah, I'm usually easygoing most of the time, but that doesn't mean I'd do this with just anyone. Molly Hooper said you're brilliant at science stuff, which is a plus. I like science and I'm pretty sure I like brilliant - so at least that's something we can talk about. I'm sure there will be others."

"Not much of a commonality."

"There'll be more." John smiled. "Secondly, like I said the other day, I don't expect you to do anything with me you don't want to do. I liked kissing you and I want try it again before Harry gets home, but that's not - it's not an assumption of anything else. For either of us. If you want this to be 'a relationship of convenience' then we can just flirt a lot in public and leave it at that."

Sherlock snorted. "And if I don't?"

"I . . ." John actually blushed a bit at that. "I don't know, honestly," he admitted. "I mean, you're bloody gorgeous, but I don't know if I'd be ready to actually - maybe eventually. But not now."

 _Eventually_ \- that implied he was expecting this fake relationship to last a while. Sherlock shifted his gaze to the tree outside the window, unwilling to let John see his thoughts while they were still so jumbled. John was turning out to be . . . surprisingly tolerable. Patient and easygoing and friendly, at least on the outside, but Sherlock suspected there was more there than first met the eye. _Plus he thinks I'm gorgeous._

Oh, who was he trying to fool? He'd be in this for even the promise of another kiss like yesterday, if that were all John was offering. Except somehow it seemed John had just _decided_ they were friends, and that was that. No payment required. Even if this all went wrong tomorrow, John was sitting sideways on his bed with plenty of room on the Star Wars duvet next to him and he had flat-out said he was open to more kissing. It could be an experiment. It was data, anyway.

John gave absolutely no objection this time when Sherlock came to join him on the bed.

* * *

The clomping of Harry's combat boots on the bare wooden stairs gave them plenty of warning, but John was still slow in pulling away from Sherlock's lips when Harry reached the landing. She stopped dead in John's doorway, paused a moment, then practically flew back downstairs.

"Clara!" she called out the front door. "It's okay - John's busy! Let me dump my stuff and I'll catch up with you in a sec!"

John buried his face against Sherlock's neck and gave an entirely adorable giggle. "Guess I can't really fault her for skiving off," he murmured. "If I were her I wouldn't want to be here when my parents got home either. So speaking of which - you free to stay for dinner?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Worth noting:** I'm setting this closer to when the canonical John and Sherlock would have been teenagers, rather then saying they're teens in 2015. Which means, for you young'uns, that we had these things called "land lines" which were like cell phones but attached to the wall and everyone in the house shared them. Thus endeth your history lesson for today :-P

* * *

Sherlock borrowed the phone and left a message on his brother's answering machine. There was something thrillingly illicit about even just holding his hand while he called, and John had a terrible time not breaking into giggles so loud Mycroft would hear.

"Hush," Sherlock grumbled, although he was still smiling. "He's probably working late again tonight, so that's one less thing to worry about. When I'm actually ready to go home I'll call back and tell him the address and he'll probably send a car."

John blinked. "Send a . . . what, like a chauffeur?"

"She's more of a PA, but yes." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft is twenty-three going on seventy. He's all full of himself now that he's got some government job - driving is beneath him."

John let out a long breath and leaned back against his pillow. "Sherlock, don't take this the wrong way, but are you . . . um . . ."

"Rich?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's just - from what you've said . . ."

"Don't be intimidated by it, John," Sherlock reassured him. "I've never really cared one way or the other as long as my family more or less left me alone. Mycroft loves to flaunt everything - money, connections, what he euphemistically terms 'good breeding' - and he's an utter arse. Money doesn't buy good taste."

"That's true, I guess." John swallowed and tried very hard not to think about all the little clues Sherlock had probably already put together about the Watson family finances. Not that he hadn't deduced John right off the bat, but John's bedroom felt infinitely shabbier knowing Sherlock's was probably all gold-plated mahogany or something. Private schools in London didn't come cheap, after all-

"John." Sherlock was sitting awkwardly, looking unsure of himself. "It's not something I can help - I promise I won't-"

"It's fine." _God, I'm being such an arse_. John took a deep breath to clear his head, then flashed Sherlock a deliberately neutral smile. "Much as I'd like to do some more practice snogging, I could actually use your help with some homework. You were reading something about chemistry the other day - how are you on redox reactions?"

* * *

It took a bit of convincing to get Sherlock to willingly do homework on a Friday afternoon, but once they got working John learned more chemistry in an hour than he had for the last two years in class. He tried to tell himself it was because this was a convenient chance to pick Sherlock's brain, but that was a lie. Doing his chemistry homework early was just infinitely preferable to discovering that, when given the chance, he and Sherlock might not actually have anything to _say_ to each other.

Harry got home looking a bit more rumpled around the edges than usual. She and Clara had _not_ been studying, clearly - didn't need Sherlock in order to deduce that. John called a halt to the chemistry review shortly afterward and he and Sherlock headed downstairs to help Harry with supper.

Evenings in the Watson household teetered between stilted routine and wild chaos, depending on whether John Watson, Senior had stopped for a pint or two (or six) on the way home. John and Harry's mother was a much more circumspect drunk - she was rarely entirely sober, but her mood swings were less severe and she was significantly more inclined to tears than to violence. John usually found supper to be an exercise in bolting food and escaping to his room before anything bad happened.

It was different with Sherlock in the room, though. John and Harry were used to working around each other in the kitchen - not talking, really, just preparing food together. Sherlock clearly had less experience cooking but seemed willing to try. John set him chopping vegetables (Sherlock seemed to enjoy wielding a knife a bit more than was probably normal) and focused instead on getting the chicken perfectly browned.

"You really are doing this, then," Harry said after several minutes of silence. "You're introducing him as your boyfriend."

"Yeah." John glanced over at Sherlock, but Sherlock was studiously focused on his knife and didn't look up.

"You're not worried they'll . . ." She gestured vaguely. "You know. Freak out?"

"That's rather the point," Sherlock said, still not looking up from his cutting board. "Best to confront it now, while they would have to insult me to my face. Not that they won't, obviously, but they'll feel worse about it afterward and will likely reconsider their homophobia sooner. Better me than your girlfriend - you're not sure she'd stick around if she were subjected to the level of vitriol you've been receiving."

Harry flushed and turned to dig the butter out of the refrigerator, conveniently hiding her face. "I'm not scared of them," she announced, voice muffled by the fridge door.

"And you shouldn't be," John cut in. "Someday you'll be able to introduce them to your girlfriend and they'll be happy for you. It's just . . . going to take a while."

"How physical does your father get when inebriated?"

Harry and John both froze.

"I mean," Sherlock said, "are you going to need a safe place to stay tonight? I'm not sure I could convince Mycroft, but there's a bolt-hole I've used before-"

"It's fine," John promised. "He'll - he throws things, sometimes, but he's never hit me. Or Harry. I think he knows I'd hit him back."

Sherlock swallowed and looked away. "Still. I put our number on the inside cover of your chemistry notebook - call and hang up after one ring and I'll know it was you. I'll find a way to call you back when Mycroft's not listening in, somehow."

"That's . . . thanks." John was spared having to go into it further by the sound of the front door opening and his mother hanging her purse on its usual hook in the hallway. "In here," he called.

Marcia Watson was petite, blonde, and thoroughly pleased John had brought a friend home for supper. She effortlessly kept up a stream of superficial chatter on everyone's behalf as John and Harry set the table and John dumped the sauteed chicken and vegetables into a serving bowl. Sherlock, John was not at all surprised to learn, was capable of impeccable manners when he chose. John Watson the elder got home not five minutes later and they all managed to sit down for a family(ish) meal. No wine yet, John noted, but that didn't mean his mother wasn't just waiting until after Sherlock left.

"So Sherlock," Marcia said. "I don't recognize that name - how did you and John get to be friends?"

Sherlock glanced at John as if verifying it was okay to speak. "I just transferred schools this summer, actually. St. Luke's, back in London. I knew very few people here but it turned out we had some acquaintances in common. John has been particularly helpful in ensuring I fit in."

"Oh, that's wonderful." She beamed at him, completely missing Harry's smirk. "You're not on the rugby team, then?"

John and Sherlock locked eyes over the table and John collapsed into giggles first. This was _not_ how he'd expected supper to go, honestly, but his mother was trying _so hard_ and Sherlock was practically slathering on the posh public school accent with a trowel and good God, how could she honestly see Sherlock sitting there all Oxbridge-formal and assume he was a rugger? Even his repressed snort was nowhere near as crass John's near-faceplant in his supper as John doubled over giggling. _Christ_.

"He's more of a science bloke," John choked out.

"Not that I don't see the appeal." Sherlock held John's eye for a significant beat, then his expression transformed to something downright _lascivious_. "I like the shorts, at least. Well, when John's in them."

There was a long indrawn breath from John's father's end of the table, but John couldn't tear his gaze away from Sherlock. Who was doing a very good approximation of an "eyefuck" over the metre or so between them. John could feel his cheeks heating up, but he didn't try to cover them. The blush probably only leant to their charade. The whole look was for the charade, of course, but that didn't mean John wasn't already sporting the beginnings of a hard-on just imagining what Sherlock might have been thinking about.

Marcia _hmm_ ed uncertainly. "I'm afraid I don't-"

"They're dating, mum," Harry announced into the sudden silence. "I mentioned to John I was mortified I couldn't bring Clara to come meet you, and he had to go be all chivalrous and break the ice first. Which I _told_ him was a bad idea, but you know how John is about listening to me."

"John," his father said sharply. "Is this true?"

 _Bloody hell - this is it, then_. There was no triumphant sense of superiority at pulling one over on his parents, no self-satisfaction at finally being _out_ and thus not having to worry about giving himself away by accident. Just the icy inevitability of one of his father's rages. John carefully put down his fork. "I'm bisexual," he announced.

"But that's . . ." His mother frowned blankly. "That's not really a real _thing_ , is it?"

John sighed. "I'm attracted to blokes. And I'm attracted to girls. Therefore I'm bisexual. And yes, it's a real thing."

"But you've always dated girls before." She blinked at him, total incomprehension in her eyes. "Is this just . . . are you . . . trying it out because of Harry? Because Sarah was a nice girl, but I'm sure there are other nice girls who-"

"Mum!" Harry groaned. "Don't pin this on me. John told me he was bi even before I came out to him, actually. And _well_ before I started dating Clara."

"It still sounds like a phase," Marcia declared. "John, please don't think we're ignoring you just because Harry is making a bid for attention. You've always been such a good boy; you can't be gay."

"He's not." Sherlock put his utensils down with a delicate _click_. "I'm the one who is gay. John is bisexual, which is a completely separate thing. He's not confused, he's not doing it for attention, he's not experimenting, and he's not unsure of his sexual identity. He's capable of romantic relationships with both male and female partners, and by some ridiculous circumstance he's chosen _me_ as the current recipient of that attention, so I'd thank you to not muck it up."

The silence was resounding. John felt a strange urge to applaud, but he settled for just beaming at Sherlock for all he was worth. He could hear Harry muttering under her breath beside him, but nothing could have been worth looking away from the gorgeous, utterly brilliant bloke sitting across from him. Sherlock was looking back at him, too, and for a moment there was nothing in the world aside from the two of them together in the room.

"Bullshit," John's father announced. "Excuse me, Marcia - I think I've lost my appetite." And he left the table. The remaining four of them watched blankly as he retreated down the short hallway to the master bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

"That was quite a bit quieter than he was for me," Harry observed under her breath.

John's mother seemed to shake herself at that. She hauled in a deep breath - not looking at any of them - and sighed. "I suppose that's that, then."

Sherlock took that as his cue to stand. "Thank you for supper, Mrs. Watson. May I use your phone to call my brother? I don't want to trouble you to get me home."

She waved toward the wall phone in the kitchen. "I need a drink," she murmured to herself.

She probably did. John stayed frozen in his chair as Sherlock had a hasty conversation with someone and then came back to the table, all polite smiles. "Want to wait outside with me for a bit, John?" he asked.

"I think not," Marcia said. "John needs to go to his room and work on homework."

"But it's Friday. And we already-"

 _"Now."_

"I'll walk you to the door, then." John glared at his mother, daring her to object to his hospitality, but she only dropped her head into her hand and sighed. John ran upstairs to grab Sherlock's bookbag and met him down next to the front door.

"You'll be safe?" Sherlock whispered. "You could come with me now if you need to - Mycroft's assistant won't be here for a few minutes. We'd have time to sneak away."

"It's okay." His father hadn't been drunk, yet, which meant John was probably fine just locking his bedroom door and hiding out for a while. At least he'd had a chance to eat first. "Want to meet up sometime this weekend?"

Sherlock's face brightened. "You have a convenient tree outside your window."

"And you noticed it."

"Of course." Sherlock quirked one eyebrow, suddenly looking much older than sixteen. And frightfully attractive. "I am brilliant, you said."

John had to fight to suppress his giggle. "Right. In that case, I'll meet you at our usual rock tomorrow night? Sometime soon after dark? I don't know how you get to school, but I'm going to guess you'll find a way."

Sherlock grinned. "You can count on it."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock spent most of Saturday lying on his bed, thinking about John. It was becoming increasingly apparent that at least some of his initial impressions regarding John Watson were flat-out _wrong_ , and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to sort out which ones those were.

 _Point #1: John Watson is protective of his sister. So much so that he's purposely drawing his parents' ire by coming out as bisexual to prevent them from blaming her for being a lesbian. The effect of which is magnified because he's the only son and his parents place a significance on their son's presumed masculinity._

 _Point #2: Dangerous? Yes, but John doesn't seem to mind potentially confrontational or dangerous situations. Examples: plays rugby. Stood up to his teammates on my behalf before even introducing himself. Held my hand outside school, in front of peers. Confronting parents head-on instead of hiding our relationship for a while and working up the courage to go public._

 _Point #3: John really does look fantastic in rugby shorts. Looks (and smells) particularly masculine when sweaty after practice, before taking a shower. Also a very good kisser. Eyes are intriguing shade of blue/brown - need more research on that point. Should research more kissing, too . . ._

And then Sherlock realized he'd spent a solid hour reliving John's kisses and not actually solving his current dilemma at all. The problem was _data_ \- it was imperative that he commit every second of John's affection to memory, because there was no telling how long it would last or when Sherlock would next have the opportunity to experience a physical relationship with someone who wasn't _boring_. Surely there was some way to enhance his ability to store information, to enable himself to keep every last scrap of observation regarding John.

Sherlock checked the phone to make sure Mycroft wasn't currently on the line, then snuck downstairs to Mycroft's office. Empty. He closed the door behind himself, booted up Mycroft's computer, and dialed up the internet. With enough looking, surely he could find his way to some esoteric site offering information on enhancing one's memory . . .

* * *

In the end he decided on a palace. Surely John deserved nothing less, and the advantage of a manmade structure was the ability to add more construction on at will. Adaptable. He'd have to start out with little more than a bare foyer, of course, but with enough time he could organize everything into separate wings and it should ease greatly in reliable recovery, assuming he kept extraneous knowledge from cluttering it up too much. John's wing he modeled after the King's Suite in the Palace of Versailles, because it should offer plenty of space for future data acquisition without overflowing. John Watson was promising to be an abundant source of data of all types. Sherlock decided John's kisses might perhaps deserve a suite all to themselves.

* * *

If he hadn't remembered to set his alarm, Sherlock probably would have spent all night in his new mind palace and would have missed his chance to see John entirely. As it was, the noise jolted him back into the real world rather abruptly. Sherlock found himself standing next to his bed before he was even fully aware of himself.

Avoiding Mycroft was as easy as going down the servants' staircase and sneaking out through the garden. Sherlock did grab a dark-colored coat, for better camouflage on his way back afterward, but he kept it tucked under his arm to use as padding over the top of the rough stone wall surrounding the (locked) back gate. He reached the school just as the last of the sun disappeared over the horizon. John was already sitting on the rock, waiting for him.

"Knew you'd make it," John said with a grin. He was backlit by the sodium street lamps lining the front walkway of the school, imbuing his hair with a hazy orangish glow, and Sherlock was hit by an almost physical sensation of _want_ in his chest.

"Of course," he said.

"No trouble getting out?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Good." John leaned back a bit, bracing himself on his hands, and cocked his head slightly to the side. "Think about me today?"

"I . . ." Sherlock sat, close enough John could touch him if he wanted to but not so close it was inevitable. "I found it rather impossible not to," he finally admitted.

"Good. Because I spent all day wanting to do this." John launched himself forward, nearly bowling Sherlock over, and captured his lips in a fierce kiss. Sherlock _would_ have fallen over, actually, if John hadn't reached around to cup the back of his skull and hold him upright. The initial angle was awkward, Sherlock vaguely noticed, but then John shifted and all of a sudden he was hovering over Sherlock's lap with his shins bracketing Sherlock's thighs and a decidedly wicked grin on his face.

"John-"

"I think I like this," John declared, and pressed another brief kiss down on Sherlock's mouth. "I'm taller than you now."

Sherlock blinked - _John always manages to surprise me; how does he do that?_ \- but then John was kissing him for real and it didn't really matter anyway. John was very carefully keeping keeping several inches of space between his groin and Sherlock's, but his hands were shifting over Sherlock's back as if he were feeling for a handhold.

"Can I . . .?" John breathed into the kiss, and grabbed a handful of fabric at the small of Sherlock's back. At Sherlock's frantic nod, John untucked Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and slid both hands underneath it, finally connecting skin-to-skin. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath at the sensation of John's thumb running firmly up his spine, then those strong fingers settling in to knead and tease while they kissed.

"I want to-"

 _"Yes."_

Sherlock insinuated his own hands under John's jumper and nearly groaned at the feeling of warm skin under his fingertips. A different time, he might have been able to map out John's life from the texture of his back - muscles and moles and scars and all - but his deduction skills were running at significantly below their normal capacity as long as John's tongue was doing whatever-it-was it was currently doing. Sherlock groaned into the kiss, and he could _feel_ John's smug grin even while John caressed Sherlock's tongue with his own. When they finally broke apart, panting, John looked nearly as rumpled as Sherlock felt.

"Is this still just practice, then?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John raised one eyebrow. "What do you think? You're supposed to be the genius."

"I don't want to hypothesize without data."

"How's _this_ for data, you git?" John pressed another brief but thorough kiss against Sherlock's mouth. "I'm sitting in your lap, trying my best to snog you senseless, and there's no one around to see us so it's clearly not just for show. Is it working?"

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. And surrendered to the next assault.


	7. Chapter 7

John wasn't always able to get away, but he did end up sneaking out his window more often then not. Sherlock was always waiting for him at the school when he got there. The next two weeks were a heady blend of knowing smiles and hand-holding during the school day, an icy silence from his parents in the evenings, and a frantic mess of kisses as soon as he and Sherlock got their privacy. It was still too cold outside to do more than slip hands under each other's shirts and jackets, but Sherlock was definitely getting better in the snogging department. Also in the licking-that- _perfect_ -spot-on-John's-neck-to-make-him-writhe department. John hadn't known he had such a sensitive neck before, but Sherlock was incredibly thorough in his exploration.

"Mycroft's gone," Sherlock announced on a Friday night when John hadn't been able to get away until especially late. "Out of town for business all weekend. How are you at scaling garden walls?"

 _Hell yes_. John's fingers literally itched to get Sherlock out of the cold and out of his posh coat. And into a bed, preferably, although he was still a bit fuzzy on what exactly he wanted to _do_ once they got there. He cleared his throat. "I'm, um. I'm game if you are."

"Good." Sherlock grabbed his hand before he had a chance to change his mind and led him off across the rugby pitch toward an overgrown path through the forest. John wouldn't have noticed the trailhead if Sherlock hadn't led him unerringly to it, despite the sun having almost disappeared behind the horizon. "This is the most direct way, if not the easiest to navigate."

"I can handle it," John assured him. He was nowhere near as proficient as Sherlock was at moving through the woods silently - Sherlock somehow managed to avoid every stick and dry twig on the ground - but he was in good shape from rugby and at least he wouldn't embarrass himself by needing to ask Sherlock to slow down. They walked in the near-dark for probably fifteen minutes before the trees thinned and suddenly they were facing a stone wall nearly the same height as John.

Sherlock rummaged under a largish fallen log and came up with what turned out to be a dark-colored blanket. He slung it over the wall, then turned and offered John a leg up. "Gate's locked," he said in a low voice, "but the wall can be a bit sharp in places. Up and over - I'll be right behind you."

"God, I feel like a burglar or something." John did put his foot in Sherlock's cupped hands, though, and hauled himself over the wall. Sherlock followed a moment later. He folded up the blanket and tucked it into a plastic bag hidden behind a wooden bench, then led John across the garden and through an unlocked door on the patio.

And _holy crap_. John had to bite his lip to keep from saying something stupid about the size of the house. Sherlock and Mycroft's family must have been well beyond "rich" and veering into "ridiculously loaded." Even with the lights all off, it was obvious even just the furnishings in the hallway probably cost more than John's entire house.

"Don't," Sherlock murmured. "You can be all astounded once we get upstairs. Mrs. Hudson's the housekeeper, though, and she's got exceptionally good hearing. She thinks I'm in my room working on an experiment."

"You will be," John murmured back. "I promise, you can _experiment_ on me all you like."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and quickened his pace. They darted up an imposing staircase, down a second hallway, and into a massive bedroom at the far end.

"Finally." Sherlock grinned at John and shrugged out of his coat. "Her quarters are downstairs, at the other end of the house, so no need to worry about her hearing us. I just don't want her calling Mycroft to come home at once because there's an intruder in the house."

"Mmmm." John shucked his own jacket, then tugged Sherlock over to the four-poster bed which dominated one side of the room. Not what he would have pictured - Sherlock didn't seem like the canopy bed type - but all the furniture looked antique and a modern little twin mattress like John had would have been out of place in the huge room. Plus the rest of the space _did_ scream "Sherlock": bookshelves on every wall, a human skull (!) on the nightstand, glass titration apparatus littering the mahogany desk. John would have bet fifty pounds Sherlock was able to locate every single item in the room simply from memory.

"That's what it's like, is it?" Sherlock breathed. He made no effort to move away from John. "What sort of experiment should this be, then?"

"I think . . ." John traced a single finger down Sherlock's sternum to his stomach, stopping right before he hit Sherlock's navel. "We can't get into too much trouble if we both keep our lower halves clothed, can we?"

Sherlock eyed John's chest greedily. "Does that mean I get to explore your upper half?"

"Depends." John grabbed the hem of his own t-shirt, but didn't pull it off just yet. "You have a hypothesis you want to prove?"

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded.

"Tell me."

"I want to . . ." Sherlock blinked several times, then looked back up and met John's gaze. "Can we start with a thorough temperature analysis of various sections of your skin? Thermoreceptors in the fingertips are incredibly accurate, but those in the mouth and on the tongue are even more sensitive."

 _Christ_. John sucked in a breath, suddenly dizzy with anticipation. "I assume reciprocity would be permitted?"

Sherlock visibly shivered at that, and immediately started unbuttoning his shirt.


	8. Chapter 8

_Finally._

Sherlock toed off his shoes and tossed his shirt in the general direction of his desk chair. Snogging outdoors in the dark was all well and good, but now John Hamish Watson was practically _in his bed_ and he had absolutely no intention of wasting the opportunity. Every time he got home after another assignation at the rugby field, he added as much detail as he could to his burgeoning mind palace. Specifically to the John Watson wing, in the large room he'd set aside for his memories of physical intimacy with John. Right now the room was a sparsely-decorated shell, some parts of the wall intensely detailed - the taste of John's kisses, the sound of his breath, the smell of his skin - but most in vague shadows. The mind palace floor in that wing was beginning to show tread marks from where Sherlock spent so much of his free time pacing and wishing.

"Hey." John launched himself backward, settling onto the center of the high mattress with a playful bounce, and tucked his feet up under him. "Did I just lose you, there?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly and clambered up beside John, settling himself close enough to touch but not to crowd him. "Sorry."

"Where'd you go? Having second thoughts?"

"No. _No._ " He ducked down to press a quick kiss to John's lips. "Making room for new information in my mind palace, is all."

"Mmmm." John returned the kiss, a quick guerrilla strike of lips and warmth before he drew back. "You gonna tell me what a mind palace is? Because I have no idea what that means, but it sounds very _you_."

Oh, it felt very nice indeed to hear that John knew him so well already. "Method of loci," Sherlock answered. "I assign data to a mental schema of a three-dimensional space so I can organize and retrieve it later." He forced a nonchalant shrug. "I decided on a palace."

"Of course you did." One corner of John's mouth quirked upward. "Do I have a room in this palace, then?"

". . . It's a whole wing," Sherlock admitted. "I thought it prudent to be optimistic."

John grinned. "I'd just call it being prepared," he said. "And I'm guessing this . . . thermal analysis of my skin using your oral receptors . . . might generate a fair amount of data." He lay flat and tucked his hands up behind his head, cocking his head slightly to the side as he did so. "Go on, then - analyze me."

 _Bloody hell_. The tableau John was presenting would have been drool-worthy even without that confident smirk, but with it . . . Sherlock sucked in a long breath and finally took the chance to look his fill.

Just as touch evidence in the past had predicted, John's chest was nicely defined. His musculature was clearly a result of regular rugby practice and a benevolent metabolism, easily visible through the dusting of blond hair over his pectorals. The thatch thickened and darkened the closer it got to his waist until it condensed into a dense line disappearing under his waistband. A hint of red elastic peeked out from above the jeans, and Sherlock literally had to close his eyes to keep from doing something terribly embarrassing. He wasn't sure what, exactly, because his brain wasn't working at full power by any stretch of the imagination, but John didn't seem to mind.

"You can touch, you know," John said from below him. "Wherever and however you like. I'm just going to relax here and practice my leering."

Sherlock opened his eyes again. Sure enough, John was ogling Sherlock's own bare chest with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. He made no move to take over, though, so Sherlock shoved away whatever nervousness he had about _finally doing this for real_ and laid a hand gently on John's sternum. John murmured softly and wriggled so he was pushing his chest up further against Sherlock's palm, but seemed content to allow Sherlock the chance to explore.

 _Right._ Proper organization was going to have to wait until he was capable of actual thoughts again. Sherlock slid down the bed and lowered himself until he was practically lying next to John, then propped up on one elbow and leaned down to place a kiss over John's right nipple.

"Oh!" John's hand flew down to land in Sherlock's hair - not directing, just gently resting in his no-longer-perfect curls. "Fuck, Sherlock. I had no idea."

It wasn't hard to deduce that John had probably never been the receiving partner for that sort of contact. Sherlock kissed the now-hardening bud again, using the tip of his tongue to tease what he could. John wriggled and murmured something below him, but the fingers in Sherlock's hair were gently massaging instead of pulling him away so clearly the sensation was a positive one. Sherlock shuffled himself forward, half draping over John's chest, and repeated the process on the other side.

"How do I taste?"

"Hmmm." Sherlock dragged an experimental lick across John's entire left pectoral, memorizing the feel of the springy hairs against his tongue and the way John's areola had a distinct texture difference even where it was still flat against the rest of the muscle. "Indescribable, I'd say."

"Bollocks. You - _ngh!_ \- you always have something to say. About everything." John gave up the fight to stay immobile - right about the time Sherlock's tongue worked its way down John's sternum and was starting to trace his abdominal muscles, John snaked one foot under Sherlock's legs and used the leverage to pull Sherlock on top of himself. He managed to do it without disrupting Sherlock's oral explorations too much, but he didn't settle back flat until Sherlock was braced between his knees with his chest brushing the very obvious bulge in John's jeans. Sherlock undulated his torso, just a little, and John bit back a curse.

"John." Sherlock breathed the word out against John's solar plexus, following it with another thorough kiss and a little suck that had John bucking upward against him.

"Sherlock." John hitched his hips again. "Any chance you've reached a pausing point in your data-gathering? Because right now I very much need to feel your full weight on me and to get my own mouth on that little spot behind your ear you like so much. God, I can't even-"

 _"Yes."_ Sherlock squirmed up the last few inches, aligning his erection up with John's through the layers of their clothing. Pants on or not, it didn't take a genius to know neither of them would last long. John latched on with a vengeance, clutching Sherlock's torso with both arms and worrying at the thin skin under Sherlock's left earlobe with just a hint of teeth. Sherlock's hips pumped forward entirely of their own accord.

"Bloody hell, yes, that's it." John sucked a bit harder, fingertips digging into Sherlock's shoulderblades. "I want to hear what you sound like when you come. You're so gorgeous. Christ. Rub off against me, Sherlock - I need to feel you. Get yourself off and make me come with you."

Sherlock didn't need to be asked twice. John held their top halves firmly in place, mouthing and kissing the sensitive skin of Sherlock's neck, but both of them were grinding frantically against each other and the hard bulge of John's cock felt _perfect_. Sherlock knew he was close, could barely breathe with the need of it-

 _"Fuuuck."_ John stiffened beneath him, lips falling away from Sherlock's carotid in a long groan. Sherlock missed his facial expression because the feel of John pressing desperately up against him as he came was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge too. By the time he returned to earth, John had his arms wrapped loosely around Sherlock's waist and he was smiling the most beatific smile.

"John," Sherlock breathed.

"I'd hug you tighter if I still had control over any of my muscles," John murmured. " _Fuck_ , Sherlock. Just . . . wow."

"I concur." Sherlock gave up the fight to keep his head up. They were still on top of the duvet and both were wearing pants which would probably be uncomfortably damp and sticky in a few minutes, but Sherlock slid off of John to lie on his side with his head pillowed on John's shoulder instead of doing anything about it. John kept an arm around him.

"Guess keeping our pants on didn't keep us out of trouble," John said quietly. "Not going to say I'm feeling particularly guilty about that, though."

"Stay." Sherlock tried to burrow his cheek deeper into John's pectoral. "You can borrow something to sleep in, we'll wash anything that needs it, and it will be dry by morning. I want to sleep just like this."

John was silent for a long moment, but then he reached up and rubbed gently against the nape of Sherlock's neck. "I shouldn't," he said, "but yeah. I will."


	9. Chapter 9

John ended up borrowing a pair of eye-searingly yellow boxers with little bees all over them. Sherlock didn't make eye contact as he handed them over. "Gag gift," he mumbled. "Mummy saw them and said she thought of me. Because I like bees. I'd offer something else, but I think your hips are wider than mine."

Much as the cartoony boxers didn't seem to match Sherlock's style at _all_ \- had his mother ever met him, even? - John had to admit they were exceedingly comfortable. He and Sherlock ended up snuggled against each other in the dark, John's bee-clad arse pressed against Sherlock's silky black pajama trousers, and they did eventually fall asleep. When John opened his eyes the next morning, it was to discover that he'd rolled over sometime in the middle of the night and now had a tuft of curly black hair practically stuck up his nose. There was also sunlight streaming in the window.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmmph." Sherlock snuffled adorably, burrowing harder against John's bare chest, before jerking awake. "John. You're here."

". . . Yeah." The cuddling portion of the morning seemed to have come to an end, so John sat up and rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "Crap. We were going to wash things before bed, weren't we?"

"No time." Sherlock squinted at the window - his hair an outrageous dandelion poof and his face creased with a red imprint of what had to have been the edge of the sheet - and groaned. "Quarter after ten, at least."

"You don't have a clock in here?"

Sherlock was already untangling himself from the bedclothes. "Don't need one," he said without turning around. "Shadows are dependable, after all. We're lucky I'm such an unpredictable sleeper - Mrs. Hudson rarely bothers to check on me on the weekends, and Mycroft is still out of town. He loves seven-day work weeks; makes him feel important. Are your jeans dry?"

John blinked, took a minute to sort through the suddenly-businesslike side of Sherlock now presenting itself, and finally leaned over the side of the bed to pick them up and check. "Jeans yes. Pants, no."

"Pity." Sherlock scooped up John's t-shirt and jacket from where they'd landed on the far side of the room and lobbed them onto the bed next to John. "Next time I'd like to see those red pants on you _without_ the jeans. Or anything else. Red looks good on you."

John could feel the blush creeping up his neck, which only made Sherlock grin. He'd probably intended to make John redder all the way along, the berk.

"I'll keep them here for the time being," Sherlock said. "Wash them when nobody's looking. Possibly sleep with them under my pillow until I get a chance to give them back. Or, you know . . . just _enjoy_ them until then."

"Bloody hell." _That_ was a gorgeous picture, Sherlock wanking with John's pants in hand. Or with his nose buried in them. Or while wearing them. Sherlock did indeed have slimmer hips-

"Right now," Sherlock interrupted John's daydreams by saying, "you need to get home before we do get caught. I intend to introduce you to Mycroft and Mummy soon enough, but I'd rather . . ." He faltered and looked down. "Post-coital introductions feel sub-optimal, for some reason."

"Hi mum, this is John, I snuck him into the house last night so he and I could rub one off together and come in our pants? Yeah, I can see that being awkward."

"Quite."

John did end up leaving the red pants under Sherlock's pillow, dried mess and all, which Sherlock seemed truly happy about. It meant John had to sneak out of the house and scale the stone wall while going commando under his jeans. He hacked his way back through the woods and jogged home, wishing the entire time that he'd gone for looser trousers the day before. There was _chafing_ , which boded ill for an imminent repeat with Sherlock.

The good thing, at least, was that neither of the Watson parents tended to be particularly early risers on Saturdays. John's father was too habituated a drinker to have anything so crass as a hangover, but he roared like a bear if anyone attempted to rouse him before he was good and ready. John's mother was probably up, possibly preparing a late breakfast, but chances were good she hadn't bothered checking John's room yet. Too bad the tree outside the bedroom window wasn't particularly climbable - it meant throwing sticks at Harry's window until she noticed him and came down to cover for him sneaking through the front door.

It took four sticks and one good-sized clump of dirt before John finally had to accept that Harry probably wasn't in her room. No lights on upstairs _or_ downstairs, actually. Which wasn't entirely unprecedented, given the sunny day outside, but still. Unless he wanted to physically break a window - something his parents certainly wouldn't appreciate - John would just have to talk his way back inside. Maybe he could convince them he'd gone out for an early-morning jog. Or study session. They'd never believe it, but maybe they wouldn't want to call him a liar to his face?

John pulled up short as he rounded the corner of the house. He hadn't been expecting an open door or anything, but he _really_ hadn't anticipated seeing his bookbag and a pile of his clothes on the front porch. His rugby kit was tossed haphazardly on top of the pile, as if it were an afterthought. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.

No answer.

 _Fuck_.

He stood there for a long while, staring at the peeling white wood of the door, but there was no sound from inside. None of the neighbors were outside, but that didn't mean nobody was staring through their curtains at the lost-looking bloke standing in a pile of his own clothes. And rugby gear. And schoolbooks. _Everything they were willing to part with_ , John realized. No photos, none of his accumulated belongings from seventeen years of living in the same house and having the same bedroom. Just . . . this.

Damn it, he wasn't going to cry. John stood there a few minutes longer, determinedly _not_ crying, before finally slinging his bookbag over his shoulder and walking back toward the school on autopilot. He got as far as the petrol station four blocks away before he realized what he was doing. There was a grimy-looking kerb along the back side of the lot with a dumpster blocking the view from the pumping area. John changed course, sat down, and allowed himself a minute to put his head down on his knees and feel sorry for himself.

He had his schoolwork, at least. Notebooks and textbooks and whatever else he'd brought home. Obviously his absence had been noticed, but maybe after his parents had a few days to cool down . . .

John unzipped his bookbag and checked the contents. The chemistry book he'd intended to do some review from, his notes, the novel he'd been carrying around for weeks because it wasn't all that good, assorted school debris - and a note, in Harry's sloppy handwriting.

 _John_ , it said:

 _Mum told me to pack your school stuff in your bag, so I'm putting this in here where she won't see. I'M SORRY! She asked where you were this morning and I froze and she saw your bed was still made and she and dad freaked. I'm going to Clara's for a few days (possibly longer). I don't know if I've ever seen dad so angry, even when he's blotto. See you in school on Monday? -H_

He stared at it for a long while. There had been times he'd thought about running away before, usually when his father was being particularly loud and unpredictable, but it had always been in the abstract. Actually being kicked out of his own home was worse. Way worse. In his daydreaming he'd never had to sort out money, or the fact that he no longer owned a toothbrush. It was always "I'll run away to London and get a job and be self-sufficient and I'll show them, so there." Now he had fifteen pounds in his wallet, a handful of change jangling around the bottom of his bookbag, and that was it.

John looked up. There was a pay phone on the outer wall of the petrol station. He had his chemistry notebook, which by chance was where Sherlock had written his number weeks ago. John let out a shaky breath, then hoisted himself to his feet.

"Hello?" The voice was friendly, matronly, and John assumed it had to be the housekeeper Sherlock had mentioned. He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice.

"Hi," he said. "I'm John. I'm a friend of Sherlock's. Is he, um. Is he there?"

"A friend?" She sounded honestly shocked. "Silly boy's never mentioned your name, but then that's Sherlock all over. Just a sec, love. I'll go tell him."

John waited in silence, staring blankly out over the petrol station lot. It was amazing, really, how much he felt . . . nothing. After the initial panic, apparently his brain had decided to flat-out give up on emotions for a while. There was a shuffling noise, then Sherlock came on the line.

"John?"

"Sherlock. I, um." John swallowed. "Are you free? Can you come meet me at my house? And, ah. Bring a duffel?"

There was a long silence. John could practically _hear_ the pieces snap into place inside Sherlock's magnificent brain. Then - "Shit."

That actually started a snicker out of John, which prompted an echoing one from Sherlock. For all Sherlock's posh Oxbridge air and ridiculously posh wardrobe, he almost never swore. It was a breath of fresh air. And there was really nothing funny about John's situation, nothing at all, but he had Sherlock and somehow that made everything a little better.

"I assume your parents discovered your whereabouts last night," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "I don't know, to be honest, but all my stuff is on the front porch. Harry left a note that kind-of-sort-of explains, but I just . . . I don't know. I'm not even sure where to go now."

"Here, obviously." Sherlock's eyeroll was audible through the phone. "I'll meet you at your parents' house in twenty minutes." His voice softened a bit. "I know we haven't . . . known each other . . . for long, relatively speaking, but will you trust me?"

John closed his eyes and melted a little bit at the hesitation in Sherlock's voice. "I trust you, Sherlock," he whispered. "Thank you."


End file.
